


Regrets Are for Later

by marguerite_26



Series: The Thigh Holster Hottie [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Compliant, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marguerite_26/pseuds/marguerite_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris heard a rustle of leaves and a muttered curse. A moment later, Stiles stumbled out of the woods, stopping dead when he noticed Chris aiming a semi-automatic between his eyes. </p>
<p>He waved, giving Chris a sheepish grin. “Hey, Mr. Argent.”</p>
<p>Chris rolled his eyes skyward and lowered his gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regrets Are for Later

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who enjoyed [To His Advantage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/798125), your kind feedback inspired me to continue with this verse. I plan to eventually write a third then call it done. 
> 
> This can be read without the first fic of the series, what occurred there is all implied here. 
> 
> Special thanks to **eleadore** , **faithwood** and **melusinahp** for advice, grammar checks and generally being fabulous.

“Mr. Argent.”

Chris set down the box of whole grain cereal he’d been debating on trying and turned slowly to see a cart pull up level with his. The muscles in his shoulders tensed. “Stiles.”

Stiles’ face did an awkward twist, a failed attempt at a smile. “Getting some groceries?” The words were spoken in that conciliatory way, like there was no avoiding acknowledging each other, no matter how much they’d both prefer it.

Chris’ eyes flickered about the breakfast aisle to both their half-filled shopping carts; he wouldn’t dignify that with an answer.

Stiles’ lips pressed together. He looked thinner, cheekbones cutting sharply, his shoulders bony, but broader than he’d been a couple months ago. He looked older, Chris realized and, self-preservation kicking in, he immediately forced his thoughts in another direction.

“Right,” Stiles said, finally. He gave a sharp nod before pushing his cart along. The first meeting since the night Stiles almost ruined Chris’ life would have been over, painful but fleeting, except Chris’ mouth was moving before he could think better of it. 

“You didn’t tell Allison.”

With the grip on his cart tightening until his knuckles whitened, Stiles stopped. “She didn’t need to know,” he said.

The meaning wasn’t clear: she didn’t need to know that Stiles was willing to suck off her father to stop the war he’d waged, or she didn’t need to know her father was so weak he’d let himself be seduced by a teenager. Allison knew just enough to understand Stiles had captured _something_ on camera. The way she’d spoken to him after she’d gotten back that night, Chris figured she’d assumed it was illegal weapons possession (something serious enough that the Sheriff’s son could blackmail him into forming another truce with the wolves of Beacon Hills). Sometimes Chris wondered why Stiles hadn’t gone that route. He couldn’t dwell too long on Stiles’ decision to use sex rather than something, anything else -- those kind of thoughts were what got him into trouble in the first place.

That night after Stiles had left, he’d expected the worst, for Allison to never forgive him, but Chris grudgingly respected Stiles’ discretion. “I’m not sure what you told her happened, but the lack of specifics was appreciated.”

Stiles nodded, looking like maybe he’d say something else, but in the end he just walked away. 

Chris went back to picking out a cereal.

* * *

He forgot about his little grocery store encounter with Stiles as the weeks passed. He tried his best to forget about Stiles entirely. He was mature enough to realize the mistakes he’d made and to get what was left his life together. Allison was dating Scott openly, with the one consideration for Chris’ sanity -- Scott never entered the house. Even if Chris had long since taken down all his security cameras, no one wanted to find out if his change of heart could suffer through seeing Allison and Scott study together on the table on which he’d once seen them naked.

They’d mutually agreed the house was off limits. He’d seen them around town and walked by with a muttered, “Evening.” It cost him a bit of his pride, but Allison looked him in the eye now, even smiled at him. When they sat together for dinner and she told him about her day, her face bright and young and happy, he could admit it worked out for the best.

He thought so even more when one night Allison stepped into the living room, gingerly sat on the couch beside him and muted the show he’d been half-watching. He turned to her, giving her his full attention. 

She lifted her chin and for a moment he was taken aback. She looked so much like Kate right then, but her voice held none of Kate’s arrogance as she explained. “A rogue omega was seen in the woods last night.”

Chris didn’t ask who the information came from. There still were some things he’d learned he was better off not knowing. “Has it killed?”

“We aren’t sure. It’s definitely capable of it. Isaac stopped it from heading into town. It was injured in the fight, but it took off before it could be properly contained.”

His instincts told him to handle this himself: get off the couch and go hunting. As if reading his mind, Allison laid her hand on his arm and squeezed softly in the way her mother would have. He exhaled sharply. “And what would you like from me?”

“We have a plan. It’ll keep him away from town until we get the situation under control, but someone covering the northern edge of the preserve would be appreciated.”

Chris recognized this for what it was: an invitation to join Allison’s world, on her terms, a test for Chris not to get trigger-happy on the resident werewolves or to take the information she’d given and form his own plan. This was new, completely outside of what happened with Stiles and why he agreed to form a truce. His actions in this would either solidify his relationship with his daughter or put it at risk. And that was scarier than the threat of jail time. 

It was the easiest decision in the world to simply say, “When?”

“Tonight, in a couple hours. They’ll flush it out, force it south, away from town, away from you.”

So he was backup, in case things went wrong. He could deal with that. 

“You don’t have to be involved,” she said.

“You’re involved.”

Allison’s eyes softened, but they didn’t hold any regret. “I’ll always be involved.” 

“I think that’s my line,” Chris muttered.

“It’d be great to be on the same side.”

“ _Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent._ ” He realized then that Allison understood the family motto better than any of the last few generations of Argents. He’d been too blind to see it. “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” she said and kissed his cheek. 

He couldn’t help the warmth in his chest at her smile as she bounded away. Turning off the TV, he headed to the garage to remember how to be an Argent. 

* * *

_The forest will speak to you, if you know how to listen._ Gerard had taught him that his first day of training. _The forest will tell you which season we are in: you can see it, feel it, and know how long before the next season comes. The moss will give you direction. The marks on the ground, the bent branches, the sounds on the wind will all whisper about your target._

Those lessons were the cornerstone of all he’d learned. 

Tonight though, the forest seemed to have no stories to tell.

He hadn’t even heard so much as a twig snap in the last hour. 

It was a bit insulting to be placed in the _safest_ spot of this plan, though protecting the exit leading to the town was arguably the most important. He knew it was the position he’d give to the person he trusted the least both in terms of sticking to the plan and not turning on the rest of the group. At least he could be proud of Allison for the right choice. 

Shortly after two AM he got the text from Allison: _All clear._ The entire night was irritatingly anti-climatic. Trying to shake off the frustrated adrenaline drop of a missed hunt, he started to disassemble the tripwires he’d laid out along the perimeter. He was nearly packed up when he heard a rustle of leaves and a muttered curse. A moment later, Stiles stumbled out of the woods, stopping dead when he noticed Chris aiming a semi-automatic between his eyes. 

He waved, giving Chris a sheepish grin. “Hey, Mr. Argent.”

Chris rolled his eyes skyward and lowered his gun. “You heard they got it?” 

“Yeah. I, uh” --he looked behind himself, squinting at the thick forest-- “got turned around at some point. So I just headed north.” He lifted his hand to show off a dinky little compass attached to his keychain. The movement made the moonlight catch the tell-tale streaks of black staining Stiles’ ripped grey t-shirt.

“You’re hurt.”

Stiles looked down. “Shit. That fucker’s claw caught me.”

Chris stepped closer, waving his flashlight in Stiles’ face to check how pale he was before lifting the t-shirt to get a better look at Stiles’ torso.

“Hey!”

Chris ignored him, maybe a little out of spite. They were past personal space issues, weren’t they? There was a slice from nipple to hip, but it was thin and shallow. “It’s a surface wound. You have stuff to clean it?”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“From a feral omega. The last one we got around here was digging its claws into the maggoty livers of year old corpses.”

Stiles blanched, stumbled a bit as his bravado disappeared at the thought of the amount of bacteria that could be festering in his ‘scratch’. 

“Let me finish loading up my gear and I’ll get you cleaned up.”

Stiles eyes narrowed, but he shuffled off to stand by Chris’ car.

“Just so you know,” Stiles said as they climbed into the SUV, “I sent a text to everyone that I’m with you, so don’t think you can dispose of my body in the woods without getting caught.”

“If I was going to kill you, Stiles, I’d be more careful than that.” He grinned, not breaking eye contact until Stiles shivered and looked away. “And don’t think I haven’t thought of it.” 

Stiles squeaked in a way that Chris enjoyed far too much. 

He snapped his mouth shut before his threats turned to flirting. He was past this, he reminded himself, no matter what Stiles looked like squirming about in the leather seat.

They headed through a roughly cleared out path on the edge of the preserve until the trees parted at a small log cabin. He’d used it last year a few times; it would be dusty and spider-infested, but there was a well stocked first aid kit in the kitchen cupboard. 

It felt safer than bringing Stiles back to his house where the memories were still thick with what had happened in his office all those months ago.

* * *

Stiles sat on the table and stripped his shirt off while Chris lit an old oil lantern to get better light than his flashlight provided.

He worked efficiently, getting what he needed from the kit, cleaning the wound, doing his best to ignore they way Stiles’ abs clenched beneath his touch or the change in pitch of Stiles’ usual chatter. 

“I should be grateful, I suppose,” Chris said, as he taped the clean gauze across Stiles’ torso. “You probably rescued my relationship with Allison.”

Stiles gave him a one-sided smile. “You really weren’t doing yourself any favors.” 

“Don’t push it.” And that looked like exactly the wrong thing to say; Stiles was smirking like he was definitely going to push it, just to be an ass. “Now, Chris, don’t be so hasty. I think there was a time you liked me to push it.”

Stiles hopped off the table, idly checking the bandage. There was no novelty there; the kid had seen enough action. 

“Nice job,” Stiles said, stepping closer, his eyes going wicked. “How can I thank you, sir?”

“ _Stiles._ ”

“No tricks this time.” Stiles waved his arms in the air as if to say, _Look pa, no cameras_.

“You’ll excuse me for not believing you.” Chris backed away for his own sanity. The flicker of the lantern was playing dangerously on Stiles’ naked chest.

“I guess I deserve that.”

Chris snorted. “Get dressed,” he said, starting to put away the first aid kit and hoping Stiles would take the rejection gracefully.

When he turned again, Stiles was still shirtless, still watching him.

“Stiles, get dressed.” He reached past Stiles to grab the bloody t-shirt and shoved it at his chest.

Before he could move away, Stiles lunged forward and kissed him.

It was different this time -- not rushed and frantic, fuelled with fake desperation. Just a soft press of lips, then Stiles was pulling back with wide questioning eyes, waiting for Chris’ response to his offer. He swallowed with an audible click, squeezing his eyes shut at the surge of _want_ that twisted up his spine. It took all his self-control not to lick the wetness of his lips.

“I turned eighteen last week.”

Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Chris said, “Is that supposed to make any difference to me?” 

The words fell flat; they both knew the answer. His hands were on Stiles’ hips, curling in at the sharp jut of the bone. Stiles’ eyes flicked to Chris’ crotch and Chris resisted hiding himself. He wasn’t the teenager here. 

“You are such a little shit,” Chris said, and then darted forward and kissed him, biting and angry.

Stiles’ mouth surrendered under the assault, letting Chris take and take. This was nothing at all like the boy who sloppily seduced him months ago. They shifted positions, Stiles spreading his legs, Chris getting a thigh between them, and kissing at the gasp that escaped. 

Stiles tugged at Chris’ shirt, and again this was different. Every movement slow and measured, every moment savored like Stiles had been thinking for months how to do this better, how to do it right. His hand tickled through the spattering of chest hair like he was fascinated. Chris tried not to think about why that was, why chest hair was still a novelty. He was past the point of stopping this and he might as well enjoy it without guilt.

Chris half-expected a comment on the grey, but Stiles didn’t seem to mind, only kissing deeper and arching until they were pressed together skin on skin. 

Stiles was riding his thigh, growing frantic, but Chris stilled his hips. He wasn’t giving up the opportunity to touch, to look. He hadn't been able to the first time.

“You in a rush?”

“Only to get off.”

“There’s no rush for that.”

Chris reached for Stiles’ belt, taking his time unbuckling it and sliding it free of the loops.

Stiles whined, jittery with impatience. “Tell that to my dick, man.”

“Maybe I will,” Chris said, inspired. He knelt, laughing at Stiles’ moan and tugging Stiles’ jeans and boxers off until he was presented with the bobbing purple head of Stiles’ cock. 

Squeezing the base, he started to lick up the shaft. He breathed deeply, taking in the musky scent of Stiles, the cedar and gunpowder from the cabin, familiar and new mixed together in each breath. He wet his lips, wrapped them around the head of Stiles’ cock and suckled.

“Oh, wow,” Stiles said, breathless. “You are so much better at that than I am.”

_Maybe I just enjoy it more,_ he almost said, but wisely bit it back. The bitterness of it would ruin their night, and for the sake of letting himself have this moment, he was willing to pretend for the next hour that this wasn’t completely fucked up. Instead, he flicked out his tongue to tease the slit and chase the taste of precome already leaking there.

The moan it elicited was a thing of beauty. One of the things he’d always liked most about Stiles was the intensity of his response, whether it be in anger or fear or celebration; he held nothing back. Chris knew that was where the attraction lay, that unbridled exuberance in all things. Chris had wanted to know once more what that fire felt like beneath his hands. 

Part of him wanted this for far more than a little romp would satisfy, but those were regrets for later.

He closed his eyes and slid his mouth down the shaft until he felt his throat flutter in warning. He stopped and listened, focused on every sound Stiles was making. He was wrecked already, beautiful little hitches of breath escaping, moans that might be attempts at words, but they never quite formed fully -- just guttural rumbles and whines as he pulled Chris’ hair, begging him to move. 

He was tempted to suck, lick, swallow until Stiles’ balls emptied, but he wasn’t ready for this to be done. He forced himself to pull off and stand, capturing Stiles’ mouth before the complaint could be spoken. 

In the next moment, Stiles was fumbling with Chris’ zipper. His pants weren’t coming off, though. He had a thigh holster on, and even though it was empty it was strapped too tight to fiddle with now. But Stiles got his boxers pushed down enough that his dick was hanging out, waiting for a fist to wrap around it. 

It was about as classy as a locker room make out and all the better for it. Whatever this was with Stiles, it wasn’t dinner and roses. It was come spilled on a filthy floor, all haste and lust driving them on, with no time to think of consequences.

“You want me to?” Stiles looked down at Chris’ dick, licking his lips. “I’ve had more practice, since.”

“Ruined more lives with that mouth of yours?”

“Harsh.”

Chris chuckled darkly and pulled him into a kiss before Stiles could back away. They were pressed together at the groin, Stiles’ spit-wet dick knocking Chris’ hip.

He held Stiles close, giving no room between them as he thrust forward. 

Stiles squirmed, trapped. He writhed, trying to break free, maybe get closer or get the right friction. But as Chris’ hand slipped down the crack of Stiles’ ass, the squirming stopped immediately. Stiles whimpered and Chris relished the sound, letting his fingers creep lower until he found tight, furrowed muscle and Stiles’ hips jerked forward.

Chris didn’t have anything on him -- lube or condoms weren’t his standard hunting gear -- and it wasn’t like he was about to take Stiles’ virginity with only spit and a promise that he was clean, assuming that was even on offer. Regardless, neither of them had the patience to do it properly. So he angled and rocked his hips, setting them on some sort of sloppy rhythm until they were breathing into each other's mouths more than kissing. 

Chris tapped against Stiles’ hole, loving the resistance of the muscle. Stiles whined, moving like a wild thing until the tip of Chris’ finger slipped inside. They both froze as Stiles clenched around the fingertip.

“Breathe,” Chris whispered, not sure if he should pull away or push in further. In the next heartbeat Stiles rocked backwards, forcing the finger deeper and then he was shuddering in Chris’ arms. Stiles tucked his face into Chris’ neck, trembling and sweaty. Wet heat splashed against Chris’ groin.

Chris held him tight, keeping him upright and hissing at the sharp sting at the base of his neck. The brat just gave him a hickey. He wondered if Stiles even realized he’d done it.

Letting go enough to reach between them, Chris pulled himself off. He rubbed the head of his cock along the come-messy hair of Stiles’ groin until the static in his brain went sharp and blank. His balls stirred and it felt like a frozen moment, forever and yet only an instant while he waited for the first spurt of his come to hit Stiles’ softening cock.

* * *

They didn’t say much while he drove Stiles back to where his Jeep was parked, but it wasn’t awkward and surprisingly not hostile. 

They understood each other, Chris figured. Maybe no one else would, but neither of them were out to please the crowd. They were both too much assholes for that.

“Allison told us all to trust you tonight,” Stiles said as Chris slowed to a stop behind the Jeep. “It wasn’t easy for her to convince the others.”

Chris knew that, or at least had guessed as much. 

“I’m glad you didn’t disappoint her.” Stiles was staring straight out the windshield, his face unreadable.

“And if she knew about this?”

Stiles ducked his head and it was too dark to see, but Chris guessed his cheeks were turning blotchy red at the jaw. “She doesn’t need to, does she?” Stiles glanced his way before looking down at his knees again. “I mean — no one’s getting hurt. This is just... a bit of fun.”

“A bit of fun,” Chris repeated, tone flat enough not to be an agreement. He didn’t understand what Stiles wanted from him, if he’d gotten it already, or what it would cost them in the end. The unanswered questions hung between them like a threat in the shadows, easy enough to ignore until it was too late.

Maybe it wouldn’t happen again. And that was fine. This wasn’t a fairytale, after all.

But Stiles’ pleased grin as he climbed out of the SUV made Chris think maybe their story wasn’t quite over.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](http://marguerite26.tumblr.com/)


End file.
